We Are Lost
by Nobodyknowsmenow
Summary: We are lost, we can never go home, my lord. If I should return think better of me?


I own nothing, I earn nothing, I know nothing! Please, please review!

This fits in in my little world of there are mant Paths to tread, and to have a friend.

We Are Lost

"Why are you here?" Denethor asked his son coldly. Looking up from his studies, he glared at the slight figure before him. "I told you to retire."

Faramir sank to one knee, his dark head bowed. "My Lord Steward." He said softly. The cold stones were strong and dependable, everything he was not.

"What do you want of me?" Denethor repeated. Gripping his courage in both hands, Faramir spoke.

"I-I came to ask you to- to forgive me." Faramir said huskily. "I failed you, Father-" He stopped, his hand flying to his cheek as his sire struck him across the face. "I mean, my lord." Faramir corrected himself miserably, feeling tears in his eyes as burning pain seared in his face. He blinked them away.

"Do not forget that again, Captain."

"I will not." He said, just like always. He always forgot, because he did not want to remember.

"Now. You were saying?" Denethor's eyes were as cold and clear as a snakes'. Faramir wanted to run, but having come so far, he would not turn back.

"I have failed you, my lord father, and I am sorry." The ranger whispered. "I let you down. Please- please forgive me."

Denethor gazed grimly at his son. "How did you fail me, captain of Ithilien?" He purred.

"I disobeyed your command to bring any people not our own back to you." Faramir replied, hating himself and his father, even as he loved him more than he could say.

"And?" he was disgusted.

"And I allowed my- I mean your City to fall." He choked. Denethor paced behind his kneeling son.

"And?" he was furious.

"I retreated from my position without orders."

"And yet you ask my forgiveness?" Denethor all but shrieked. "You DARE to think I could forgive you? You failed me! You are worthless! Would that your brother was here! When he made a decision he did not snivel for forgiveness! He at least took some RESPONSIBILITY for his actions!" Denethor kicked Faramir in the belly. The unsuspecting ranger fell forward, gasping.

"I am sorry, my lord." He moaned, and the foot found his ribs. Denethor grabbed his hair and yanked him upright. "I do take responsibility, and perhaps I am not sorry for some of the things I did, but I am sorry that you see me as a failure. I am sorry I have angered you." Tears stood in the huge green eyes, and Denethor hated them.

Their deep clarity marked his son as a far-seer, a true man of numenor, and their color proclaimed the blood of elves in him. And his Gift was strong. Stronger than his own, and that made him jealous. Without even trying, the boy could read a mind; yet, to his father's anger, he never used that against anyone.

"Get up." Denethor growled. Faramir bowed his head, reaching out with a slender hand to touch his father's boot in supplication.

Denethor stared at his sons' powerful hand, fascinated. It was small and thin, suited to fine work; a scholars or healers hand perhaps, but many years of work with a bow had hardened and coarsened his hand so that it was fit for naught else. The calluses marred them cruelly, and they appeared almost as welts to Denethor. He had denied his son a life he could lead, forced him to become another man. He had almost expected that man's death; but Faramir had been incredibly hard-working and resilient. He had not given in, he had fought and trained and slaved and now… his father could not deny it. He was a fine soldier.

But not as fine as Boromir. He hated the sight of the son left him, for it reminded him of what he had lost.

Faramir stared at his hand at well. But his thoughts were on the boot it touched more than his own limb, and he was thinking of how often his father had kicked him as he would a stray cur.

Yet here he was, touching that same foot, begging for forgiveness. He was more like a dog than he cared to think.

Ah, yes, he would always do as told, be thankful for whatever crusts were thrown his way, and bear the kicks and blows in humble silence, and adore his kennel master without thought or mind. After all, he was the runt of the litter. What else was there?

But how at times he longed to stand for himself, to be trusted to work for his master. He knew he could, if perhaps not as quickly as his elder brother, and he was by no means as handsome and showy as he was, the pick of the litter. But he could yet hunt and work as well, though in a different way.

Why could he not see that? Why i would i/ he not see that?

What he would not give for some affection from this man, his father. He would gladly die for it, though he was told but once those three simple words.

"Get _up_, boy!" Denethor hissed. "Do not touch me!"

Not those three simple words.

"Please…" Faramir rose painfully. His ribs hurt. "Ada."

Denethor whirled, his hand raised to deal Faramir another blow. Faramir cowered away, raising his hand to defend his face. "Lower your hand, Faramir." The ranger did not move.

"Lower thy hand, boy." Faramir lowered his hand fearfully, and Denethor struck him again across the face, drawing blood with his ring. The harsh sound of flesh on flesh rang through the room, and Pippin winced visibly, though the guards gave no sign that anything was going on, because this was common. Faramir stumbled, and again fell to his knees.

Poor young lord, the guards thought. Can not the old dog allow his son a bit of love? He sends him to die… I pray Eru I never fall so far.

Denethor gripped his jaw and raised his head. "That'll not mark thee. Be thankful for that." He said, tracing the blood trickling on the younger man's cheek with his finger. It looked like a tear of blood. "Next time it might scar. Be glad I did not use the scourge, whelp!" Faramir shivered.

"Please forgive me!" Faramir begged. "I am sorry!"

"No." Denethor turned away. His dead wife's eyes stared into his, pain-filled and loving. "No. I can not forgive you. Go."

Faramir bowed his head, and he felt hot tears pricking at his eyes. His heart was broken. "Then we are to be lost, my lord." He whispered, standing up, turning hopelessly away.

"Just- go."

"I go. Father." Softly he shut the door, and he was glad to go. Denethor hurled a glass pitcher after him, and it shattered into thousands of shining fragments, beautiful and deadly.

"I have no right to be called thy father!" He snarled. Sitting down on his chair, he began to weep.

"I have no right to be called his son!" Faramir moaned, sinking to the cold stone floor, losing himself in the pain.

"We are lost!" He sobbed, as did his son on the other side of the door. "Lost! We can never go home!" they wept. "He'll never forgive me."

"If I should return, please, please, think better of me!"

PLEASE review! _PLEASE! _


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